


Have Me Then

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alive Sirius, Always A Girl Draco, Canon What Canon, F/M, Infidelity, Misogyny, Porn with Feelings, Unenjoyable sex (not between Draco and Harry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: In Draco's world, women are expected to be demure, non-lusting creatures. They are expected to be devoted while their husbands cater to base desires with women of the evening. All passions they are permitted lie between dusty, well-worn pages of romance novels. Draco doesn't want to be that woman, but as she spends her days—unfulfilled—in the arms of a boring lover she dreams of more.Potter is so much more than she could imagine.





	Have Me Then

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to do before for a brief warning. Draco consents to sleep with Theo, but when they are together she clearly is unenthusiastic and fulfilling a duty. This might be traumatic for some. I did not write it with the intention of dubious consent and K my beta, and one of the mods of the fest, assured me it was within the bounds of the fest. It was written to showcase how she wants better than what she is getting with him. The idea of consent that I tried to work with was that Draco has been raised in shame and Harry is patient with her, asking her to voice what she wants from/with him—as explicitly as she can. It is supposed to be a woman finding her own agency in sex, and knowing that it is okay to want more and not settling for anything less. IDK if it came across like that, I kinda wrote it in two days since I had a lot going on and forgot I had a deadline. It was definitely intended to be longer. 
> 
> Tagged "Always A Girl" because I kept getting traffic on a thing and some DM's asking for a continuation. This ISN'T a continuation but *jazz hands* more Female Draco.

  
  
  


She’s counted four hundred and ninety rose petals—painted delicately on her ceiling—by the time the man above her comes, with a disgusting, oafish grunt. His weight is heavy as he falls against her, panting into her neck—cooling the sweat-slick skin with warm puffs of air. 

 

“Was that good for you,” he enquires, warm brown eyes searching her face earnestly. She hasn’t the heart to tell him it was crap. If she hadn’t used the Ever-Slick lube before they’d started she’d have been a barren desert between her thighs. 

 

“It was great,” the words near stick in her throat. 

 

His smile is radiant. Causing her to wonder if the rest of her life will be spent lying to this man. What an unpleasant thought. 

 

*

 

There is a high slit tearing through the sea of crimson velvet she wears, and there is an appreciative sweep of her soon-to-be-fiancé’s gaze. She gives him her best smile, pretending to preen beneath his approval. 

 

“Are you ready, Draco,” he holds an arm. She takes the proffered limb with great reluctance. 

 

“Ever ready, Theo,” Draco murmurs as he leads her down the curve of this marble stairwell. The manor is done up for a Christmas party. An event her father hosts yearly—the function where many a deal are made for the sake of her father’s ever-expanding empire. 

 

Theo leaves Draco to her friends not long after they enter the ballroom. He’s off with the men to make his own dealings. Draco doesn’t mourn his loss as she accepts a glass of champagne, from one of the many floating magical trays. Her mother is on the dance floor, twirling about—beneath the bright glow of crystal chandeliers—in the hold of their dark-haired cousin, Sirius Black. He’s the only man who doesn’t feel the need to dabble in business affairs at every societal function. Content to woo the women of society while their husbands ignore their needs. Draco used to loathe her mother for stealing off to darkened corners with the handsome heir to the Black Family fortune. However, as she spends more nights in the lonely hold of Theo’s arms, Draco’s beginning to believe she can understand  _ why.  _ Her mother is seeking the thrill that will never be found with Lucius. She’s searching for the scorching pleasures of her leatherbound romances. The ones she reads, on the velvet chaise in her private quarters, with bosom heaving and flush high upon her cheek. 

 

Draco sees so much of her future in her mother and it makes her more depressed than glad. She plasters on her fakest smile when Daphne and Astoria approach. They’ve got conspiring smiles, meaning nothing good will come from what they say—yet, from experience, Draco knows there is great fun to be had. “What has the both of you looking like the Cheshire Cat?” 

 

Daphne is the one who tips her head in the direction of a tall, dark-haired gentleman. One Draco hasn’t looked upon since her school days. The sight causes a shocked sound to be born from her pale throat. Harry Potter is wrapped in midnight finery, a devilish expression on his face as he watches where Draco stands. “Potter is watching you...like he wants nothing more in this life than to devour all that you are,” Astoria whispers with glee, along with a slight note of envy. 

 

“He’s just back from another adventure. Rumour has it he’s spent the last seven months with the dragon queens of the Antarctic.” Daphne releases a desirous sigh, “Tales whisper that they have cold skin, yet burning ardour flows through their vein.” 

 

“Potter is known to be a man of pleasure,” Astoria nods in a sage manner. “Before the dragon queens, he spent time in a village of Veela learning their art of tantric love-making.” 

 

“Now he’s home with only us bores to entertain him,” Daphne titters, hope blooming in her crystal blue eyes. 

 

Draco frowns in consideration. What would a man, worldly as Potter, want with a woman like her—like any of them—one who’s never experienced the mythical orgasm. 

 

She turns away from him, pretending not to see the desire his eyes hold as they roam Draco’s creamy flesh. 

 

*

 

“May I have the pleasure of a dance,” the soft-spoken words Potter opens with, as he approaches where Draco is seated. 

 

She has no reason to refuse him, yet feels ominous as she places her pale palm into his golden-skinned hand. His calluses are electric against her, making her marvel at secrets hidden so obviously in his skin. Theo’s hands are nearly as soft as her own, as sheltered as hers, and his lustful touches have never ignited her as fast as this casual hold. 

 

Potter pulls her closer, near flush, but far enough apart to maintain a sense of decency. “Is this all right?” She nods in response, and there’s something arousing when Potter’s voice drops lower, “Tell me, Draco, tell me this is all right if you truly mean those words.” 

 

“I could stand to be closer,” she admits. He draws her nearer. Pressing his cheek to hers as they glide, and Draco does not care who witnesses such a bold display. 

 

*

 

Her feet are sore, yet she still dances on, content to have Potter flush against her—breathing the scent of her hair in the most thrilling way. “I’m about to excuse myself,” he murmurs when they begin to slow in their dancing, both content to sway gently without really moving. “Would it be too forward if I asked you to join me,” nothing in his gaze gives away his intentions. Potter remains neutral. Leaving it all up to her again. 

 

“Where are you going?” 

 

“The garden, the loo, your room,” he whispers with a wicked sort of grin. “Wherever you invite me, I will follow.” 

 

“My room,” Draco decides, resolute.  Potter nods in a pleased manner, following behind her as she leads him from the ballroom. Theo doesn’t so much as cast them a glance; he’s too immersed in giving fake laughs when he pretends Lucius has said something clever. Potter doesn’t seem the sort to indulge in fakery. Thrilling Draco to know that when he watches her with intention his feelings are real. 

 

When they are on the third floor, in the east wing, she stops suddenly—whirling to face him. “May I touch you,” she breathes. Draco’s bosom heaving, as her mother’s often does when she leaves those secluded rooms with Sirius trailing behind. 

 

“You have my permission to always touch me as you please,” Potter murmurs, spreading his arms wide. “If you do something I don’t like I will tell you and will expect you to never do it again.” 

 

“What do you dislike,” Draco enquires, as she approaches cautiously. Her fingers trembling while they reach for the neatly kept stubble on his jaw. She breathes him in deeply, basking in the scent of a man more feral than any she’s ever known. 

 

“So far I’ve yet to find something I dislike.” He kisses the tips of her fingers when they smooth over the soft skin of his lips. Potter searches her gaze with his own, murmuring, “Tell me what you want, Draco.” 

 

“I want you to touch me,” she admits, pressing her cheek into his palm. 

 

“Give me more explicit details, Draco,” he encourages, and fills her belly with the tingle of delight. Draco has never spoken a desire so plainly. Draco had assumed she could tell him she wanted him and that he would lead, but Potter appears to have other notions on how this will go. “How can I give you my passion when I don’t know what passions you desire?” 

 

Draco might be sheltered, but she knows of sex and intimacies. Has stolen those forbidden books her father keeps hidden with book covers—boring titles meant to discourage curious eyes.  _ Magic in Finance: A Wizard’s Guide to Wall Street.  _ In that book she had witnessed many a debauched act. Women on their knees, putting their kiss swollen mouths to parts of the body her mother had always said was vulgar. “I want...” she trails off, momentarily unsure but a gentle touch beneath her chin encourages her. “I want to go to my knees for you.” She does not flinch when she says this, holding his eyes with her own. “I want to have your cock in my mouth.” 

 

“Is that all,” Potter teases, but he is not unkind. He allows her to back him up against one of the walls, waits patiently as she trembles with the buttons on his trousers. Draco swallows when she frees his thick cock—it’s full, long, and heady with the scent of arousal, making her mouth water in a hungry way. “What do you want me to do?” He prompts her in a way that makes Draco wonder if he can hear the private debate in her mind. The one that whispers  _ tell him you want him to fuck your mouth  _ while another voice shrills  _ no, he’ll think you a harlot, and you are no harlot, Draco Malfoy.  _ “Let me give you what you want,” Harry pleads, as if her wants are his key to his own pleasure. 

 

Draco pulls his hand to her hair, glancing up at his face while she whispers, “Unbind my hair, and grip it while you fuck my mouth.” A short span of silence stretches between them, but Potter’s mouth grows from an unreadable line to a wolfish grin. 

 

“If that is what you wish,” he murmurs even as he lets her spill of pale ash hair loose. His golden fingers wind within the strands, pulling enough to hurt  _ just right _ . Her inner thighs are more than damp, the throbbing need between them growing as he growls at her to put her mouth on his cock. “Show me how a societal princess sucks cock better than a well-seasoned whore.” God that makes her need greater, and she pushes her hand into the high slit of her gown while her other hand holds the weight of his heavy cock steady. Draco’s tongue darts out to taste the translucent shimmer leaking out of the head—instantly she wants more of that bittersweet taste on her tongue. Potter fucks her mouth once she’s established a rhythm, and has proven she won’t choke on the length of his cock. He holds the reins of Draco’s hair, gyrating in and out of her spit slick mouth. Draco runs the slim, smooth length of her fingers into the folds of her wet cunt, teasing as she hopes his tongue will tease. Imagining the firm wet muscle exploring her while she rides Potter’s face—she wants to ride him until he has her begging for his cock. Which is what Draco’s imagines next as she starts pressing her fingers deeper, into herself, with intent. 

 

Potter notices her movements. His husky voice sound strangled, but still raw—ever powerful and domineering in ways that she desires. “Fuck yourself deeper, Draco,” he commands, but still manages to make his words sound a plea. “Imagine it’s me, in you—deeper than that prat Theo can go. I’m going to fuck the memory of his cock out of you. Replace him with me, drown your body in my seed until it only accepts me.” She whimpers around him, sucking him tighter, willing him to taint her in ways Theo never has. Ways he never will. “Draco,” Potter hisses, when she’s oh so close, “Draco, may I come down your throat?” 

 

Her yes is non-verbal, but he recognises her permission by the way she takes his cock deeper, moaning around him, wanting all he has to give. It’s not long before Potter comes, and she swallows everything, drinking him down like a sweet vintage paired with bitter chocolate. 

 

“Jesus,” Potter murmurs, giving her a lazy grin. 

 

*

 

Theo’s hold on her breast is mechanical, technical like a Healer. Giving Draco zero pleasure, yet she moans loudly. Something that causes him to frown in disappointment, “I don’t like when you’re so loud.” He pulls back, “It makes you cheap, like a whore.” 

 

It’s on the tip of her tongue that she’d rather be a cheap whore than a timid doll, but she says nothing. Allowing him to take his pleasure between her thighs while he doesn’t spare a thought for her own. She wonders then,  _ how am I different from a whore now?  _

 

*

 

“Here,” Potter’s voice is a soft whisper against her pebbled nipple as he sits up—holding tight to her hips as he adjusts himself. “There, I should be at a better angle now,” he grins, helping guide Draco back down onto his hard, yet velvet smooth flesh. And he’s right, it is better—hitting Draco in all the right ways as she rotates her hips, using her knees to set a controlled pace. He helps by using a firm grip on her hips. “Damn,” he nibbles against her nipple, “You’re extraordinary.” 

 

“You’re only saying that because you’re buried in me,” Draco teases. Then draws him into a languorous kiss. 

 

“I’ve never been one to tell my bed partners something I do not mean,” is his reply, as he threads his fingers through her hair. “So where is your dashing husband-to-be,” it’s teasing, yet there is some dark emotion haunting his face. 

 

“Doing the only thing he’s marginally good at,” Draco replies in a breathless manner as Potter rotates his hips just so. “Business lunch with my father, a round of gold after, more business at a Quidditch match tonight.” 

 

“So I have you all to myself,” his teeth scrape over the rabbit fast pulse in her wrist. 

 

“For today I am all yours,” she replies as she moves over him faster. Drawing him in with a downward thrust, before drawing herself up—near off of him—then thrusting down again. 

 

“For today,” Potter echoes, tone tinged with something she does not wish to examine at this time. There’s a warning of heartache in the wistfulness she hears. 

 

*

 

The moon is high, full, and romantic notions flit through Draco as she watches blue-grey clouds whisper over the silvery light. Potter’s arms are warm and strong where they circle her nude form. 

 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he breathes, another of those commands that sound soft like a plea. His lips are a light touch against her hair, murmuring devotions in languages she doesn’t understand—as he often does when they are alone like this. 

 

“I am thinking how it’s nearly been a year.” Christmas is approaching again. They’ve been doing this same dance—together—for what feels both like a lifetime and not long enough. “How have you not grown bored with me?” It is a deep-seeded fear that she’s yet to unroot; no matter how often Potter comes to call. 

 

“Do men in your small, sheltered world tire of women so quickly,” Potter challenges—as if he, too, did not grow in a world of prestige. As if he does not know of the men like her father—men who marry a  _ good, noble _ woman but bed lascivious whores in the night. When they need the passions their good women are not allowed to show—how often, in her own  _ relationship _ does Theo tell her to lessen her voice, her wants, her needs when they share a bed? A bed they share less and less often. When she doesn’t answer, Potter prompts her with another question, “Why do you think yourself so unworthy of a person’s unwaning attention?” She does feel unworthy of lasting devotions. All women Draco knows are trinkets to be adored at a man’s discretion. When her silence persists Potter uses a low, commanding tone, “Draco.” 

 

“You spent months in the arms of Veela, of dragon queens,” she turns fearful eyes towards his face, unable to see him in the partial gloom of her room. “What could I—a sheltered woman—offer you that they could not?” She has only known pleasure with him, how dull she must seem now that she’s been trained. Her fear is that soon he will abandon her to this constant misery, and she will become only a distant memory as he learns greater lovers. 

 

Potter watches her, in silence—one that stretches long and worrisome—then, as he opens his mouth to answer, Theo bursts into the room with a bouquet of roses. Ever so trite, clearly not bothering to remember that she has a greater love for lilies. 

 

“My dearest,” he starts, faltering when he notices that Draco is not alone. “So,” his voice grows colder than the winter wind. “You’ve been whoring about with this mudblood.” 

 

Draco’s voice is caught in her throat. Beneath her Potter stiffens—body tensed for a fight. “Filthy cur of a man,” Theo spits, approaching the bed with a face full of scorn. “Unwanted so he is content to lie with women belonging to others. Doomed by your mother’s blood and further ruined by growing at the shadow of a whoremonger.” Theo turns his eyes upon her, a sneer twisting his thin lips, “Is this who you want as your husband, Draco? A muddied layabout who consorts with lustful creatures?”   

 

Her tongue feels glued to the roof of her mouth—heavy—try as she might she cannot convince it to move. Potter, in a rare show of emotion appears disappointed with her refusal to answer. “Have her back then,” he taunts at Theo. A mean smile tilting the corners of his lips, “Have her again. Knowing that you will spend a lifetime fucking her and she will spend a lifetime, unsatisfied, dreaming of me while you come.” He does not acknowledge Draco as he summons his clothing, and as easily as he swept into her life Potter sweeps out of it again. 

 

*

 

She sits in the cold of her now empty room. Not long before Theo held her chin in the grip of his hand. While she struggled he hissed with loathing, “Do not think I would be so disgusting as to fuck you when the seed of mudblood coats the inside of your thighs.” He had shoved her, and Draco’s hands stumbled against the expensive, intricately embroidered duvet as she’d cried bitter tears. 

 

The tears are gone now—dried up just before dawn, and Draco breathes out a heavy sigh. With breakfast she will wander down the stairs, play the demure, devoted fiancee. She can go back to a life without Potter and his passionate hold. She can forget the way her body trembled at the caress of only his gaze. She will learn to forget the way his whispers of encouragements—his patience with her moments of embarrassment—made her come. 

 

Draco will try to forget. 

 

Knowing she never will. 

 

*

 

The garden is in bloom—for spring has come, at last, to Malfoy Manor. Draco sits beneath a canopy of ivy, dressed in a modest pale-yellow frock. Her mother is entertaining the other women with gossip while Father engages the men with his never-ending quest for world dominance. 

 

“They say Potter is on another of his adventures.” Draco catches, after hours of tuning them out. Theo’s hand on her thigh grows tight, beneath the cover of the table linens. Draco manages not to wince. “He’s taken up with a blonde,” Mother continues in a trilling way. “Sirius tells me there may be wedding bells in his future.” 

 

Father bristles at the mention of mother’s paramour, but remains silent—Draco cannot say anything, her heart is stuck in her throat. Mourning, in beautiful spring, the loss of her one true love. 

 

“Perhaps marriage will settle him, and he will finally grow into a mildly acceptable gentleman,” Theo sneers. Then, turning towards Draco he leans for a kiss, murmuring, “Isn’t that right, my pet?” 

 

_ Pet _ . Because that is what she is, isn’t she? Something he expects obedience from, and something to be ignored until he feels the need for affection. 

 

“No,” she screams. Throwing herself out of the chair—away from that mouth she detests. The one that feels of slugs climbing over her skin. Around them the table grows silent, dangerously still as they all watch her after such a fervent outburst. 

 

“No  _ what, _ ” Theo demands, daring her to deny him again. 

 

Draco gladly rises to such a challenge. “No,” she hisses more vehemently. “No, I won’t marry you. No, I won’t pretend to love you. No, I won’t be content for you to use me for your heir yet find pleasure with others. No, no, no, no,” her voice grows shrill. “I do not want you.” 

 

“Tell me what you want, Draco,” her heart stops with the sound of that voice—a command that is more of a plea. Ever so slow, she turns hoping he’s truly there. 

 

Potter leans against an ivy ensconced beam of their grand pergola, his eyes ever patient as she sorts through her own feelings. 

 

“You,” she finally breathes, rushing towards him—stopping just before she touches him, waiting for permission. “Only you, Harry Potter.” 

 

With a finger he beckons her closer, “Have me then.” His devotions to her are barely a whisper. Draco buries her face in the crook of his strong neck—breathing him in as if she’s been starved for oxygen. “I am yours,” Harry promises. “I was yours the first day I saw you sniff in disdain at Madam Malkin's. I was yours again when I watched you glide across that ballroom floor. Poured into crimson velvet, you were more beautiful than any creature I’ve ever known.” Potter chuckles at her scoff. “Have me forever, and let me prove how I will never tire of you. Let me prove I will never douse your fire.” 

 

“Just kiss me, you poetic prat.” 


End file.
